Liminality
by Luorescence
Summary: With Michael and Lucifer's constant skirmishes, Heaven is a mess Gabriel want to escape from. However, unwilling to depart Heaven itself, Gabriel took solace in watching the life of his vessel on Earth. That is, until God ordered them to exterminate the Nephilim; the perfect occasion for the archangel to finally have his vessel.
1. Liminality: first part — Apocalypse

Welcome there,

First, I wrote the story for this year's NaNoWriMo and it's already finished. I will only post it once per week, or once per two weeks, though: even if it's complete, I'm still editing it and some bits are unfitted to be published yet. Moreover, I haven't decided how to cut the chapters so... Yeah, there's still a lot to do.

Anyway, about the story itself. It's part of the Vector Animae verse, and is a sequel to Moonlight but it isn't necessary at all to have read it to understand Liminality. For now, the verse is centered around Gabriel and his time before posing as Loki, and his departure from Heaven. The story itself is a prelude to his departure itself.

An important part of the story happens on Earth, and features the Nords (obviously because of Loki). Please keep in mind that even if I based on the Nord culture and mythology, there'll be differences. Like the fact that the story happens way earlier than the documents we have on Nord culture, as in centuries BC, whereas the Viking Age happens AD. I was also inspired by other fictive Nord universe such as Skyrim and Yggdrasill.

I'll update more informations about the verse, at paper-fold on Tumblr, and if you want any questions, don't hesitate.

Big big thanks to everyone who encouraged me, and even more to Yakigane who beta'ed me and listen to my ramblings during the writing.

* * *

**LIMINALITY  
**First part — Apocalypse**  
**

* * *

When a child,  
certain skies sharpened my vision:  
all their characters were reflected in my face.  
The Phenomena were roused.—  
At present,  
the eternal inflection of moments  
and the infinity of mathematics  
drives me through this world where  
I meet with every civil honor,  
respected by strange children  
and prodigious affections.—  
I dream of a War  
of right and of might,  
of unlooked-for logic.  
It is as simple as a musical phrase.

— _War_, Arthur Rimbaud

* * *

One instant was all she needed to recognize the sword. It was as beautiful as its representations engraved on books' pages. The hilt's pommel was the body of a spider, carved into onyx. Its long legs entwined on each other to form the grip and finally transformed into two serpents, which were the quillion. One was standing in the air, fangs barred, while the other slithered around the cutaway. The blade itself—of a deep semitransparent ruby—wasn't flat at all, more close to a twig in its shape than a sword. The silvery runes carved onto it disappeared under the bright red blood flowing into their lines, retracing them.

Alangan chocked blood out, her eyes on the Ás when he put the legendary sword further in her belly. She bit hard onto her lips then, obviously stopping herself from screaming when Loki twisted Lævateinn. She swayed on her feet, about to fall. The god though, took her small frame into his arms before that happened, securing her against his chest, meanwhile he was muttering into her ears.

"Always knew it, ya fucking bastard," the alfr said, her voice weak but much better than moments ago. It seemed almost as steady as before the whole debacle happened. She felt her heart clench at the thought.

_Kára, get out of here._ The valkyrie knew the archangel was right, but she couldn't convince herself to depart when the last of her companions was dying right in front of her eyes. That would be unacceptable. She had been enough of a coward. Her fists tightened when she felt her wrath to Gabriel and Alangan come back. The valkyrie slowly shook her head: not wasn't the time to let her emotions get the best of her.

"Kára, why are ya still here? He's gonna kill ya, ya know it—" Blood blurted out her mouth, staining her white goatee. "Ya still have a mission waiting for ya—" Her voice was so coarse and different from her usual high-pitched tone it ached to hear it. "Ya kidding, right…"

_For the sake of all that's holy, please! Kára, please, listen to the alfr. The gate is open, get out of here! _

There was an edge of panic in Gabriel's words, an urgency that hadn't been there before. Kára couldn't help the smirk: where was the all powerful being that had vowed to protect her, now? The cringeworthy arrogance and confidence were missing from his pleading and, despite the circumstances, that was satisfying. She heard flutters of wings above her, as Gabriel alternatively spoke to her and the other angel, prompting her to go and telling him how _they_ couldn't leave if Kára herself was still there. Although she could now clearly see Castiel's and not just his wings made from the very fabric of the shadows, she couldn't hear what he answered.

In front of her, Loki had now a knee on the ground, arms cradling Alangan like she was a delicate doll. He was still whispered to her, too quiet for Kára to hear the whole discussion. But, from the small she caught, the language he used wasn't one she could have understood. From time to time, he was glancing at her, a wicked smile on his face and these peculiar eyes of him, full of dark promises. Diving Lævateinn further into the alfr, he winked at her, passing a tongue on his lip. The valkyrie shivered. She closed her eyes, pressing on the stump of her right arm until she hissed, to push the growing fear away.

Behind her was the gate, its runes glistening as it maintained the passage between Nidavellir and Midgard open. She just had to take a step back into the golden liquid. Then, she would be back into her realm and would be able to close it before Loki could cross it. She couldn't bring herself to do that, though. It felt _wrong_ to let Alangan die alone in the Ás' cruel hands. If she were to ignore her mate's suffering, what sort of person would she be? She had been forced to watch every one of them fall. Turning her back to the alfr's last moments? She wouldn't do that. She was better than that.

In her mind danced the memories, as fresh as it had just happened: Fáfnir in all its draconic majesty above their heads, his four wings stretched out while he launched a fireball at them. The quiet but strong confidence that the shield cast by Rafn and her brother wouldn't fail protect them, followed by terror, when Aldi had emerged on the square, a big grin forming on his lips when he had seen them, as if he had been searching for hours. There had been Rikardr and Adalrikr behind him, the later stopping the first from running after Aldi. And then, when the fire and lava had engulfed everything, gliding on the barrier without touching them, it had also taken Aldi. She hadn't looked away, she couldn't.

In that same way, she hadn't turned away when her companions and friends had met their end, moments ago. Even if she had been restrained, she could have turn away, but she hadn't. She wasn't that kind of person. And even if she died today because of it, she would let it be that way because at least, it was a fate she had chosen.

There was a soft liquid texture on her cheeks, Gabriel's feathers caressing her. The scar on her back emitted warmth through her body, soothing a little her pain, but for now, the archangel had fallen into silence. She was grateful of that, as listening to him was only growing more tiresome, and there was no way to shut him down.

"I'll pray for your soul to find rest in Valhalla," Kára eventually said, approaching Alangan. She sat next to her, ignoring Loki's gaze on her. Then, she took the alfr's small hands in her's. "Will you, at least, let me perform the ritual to send her by the Allfather's side?" she asked the Ás without looking at him. He kept silent, but made no move to stop her so she took that as a yes.

"Ya're a stupid very _very_ stupid valkyrie, Kára daughter of Heimkell Oath-keeper," Alangan answered, turning her big mismatched eyes on the valkyrie, clear and piercing, as if she wasn't on the verge of dying anytime soon.

"Sorry." Kára let go of her hands, putting her fingers on Lævateinn to coat them with the alfr's blood.

"Na. Ya're nat." Kára traced the runes on her companion's forehead, then moved other her eyelids and cheeks. "Was a great honor to fight at yar side. Will wait for ya, with the others, in Valhalla."

When the valkyrie finished chanting the galdr to send Alangan's soul to the Allfather, there was a sharp snap. Like he had done before, Loki had made Lævateinn like her body disappear into thin air. She was left alone with him, Gabriel and Castiel somewhere above them, but their wings were on her, shifting hues of light for the first, and moving material darkness for the second. Like that could protect her from an almighty god. A divinity who was now pouting like a child.

"I really like her, you know? We've known each others for centuries, had friends in common also. The first time I met her? It was here, when my brother and Hœnir came to visit the Fallen King. She was such a sweetheart. I wish I hadn't had to kill her."

His expression could have been contrite if Kára hadn't known who she was dealing with. She forced her dry laugh down her throat. Nobody had forced him to kill anyone as he was powerful enough not to be threatened by mortal beings like her, or vættir like a simple alfr. And yet, he was denying his responsibility. That was so pathetic and childish that, if someone had told her that, she wouldn't have believed they were talking about an Ás: the Allfather's sworn brother even less. That was so disappointing.

"I like you too," he said while moving to stand just in front of her. "It's not a lie," he added after a little while. Like that would make him more sympathetic. "That's such a shame."

_Kára, please._

But the valkyrie couldn't take a single step back; Loki was now gripping her shoulders with an inhuman strength. She could feel the bruises that were already there, darkening under his fingers, as well as the burning of the arborescent mark on her back, like Gabriel was trying to shoo the god away. The tips of the branches were right under the smug bastard's touch, almost as painful as in the beginning and she hissed.

She shrugged also, trying to disengage herself from Loki's grasp to no avail: the Ás didn't even seem to notice she had moved, his head cocked on the side to study her. At least, her face was nothing but a mask devoid of any expression. She wouldn't let him see the fear gnawing at her stomach, nor the agony she felt.

"Even if it was very short," he eventually said, looking a little bit remorseful with his pouty lips, "It was good traveling with you." A wink came along his words, as well as one of his usual charming smiles. "I've loved every bit of it."

Kára wanted to make him eat his smile. She had never liked it anyway. "Since you seem keen on making revelations, may I ask you something?"

"Anything you want, milady." He gave her the lewdest stare she had ever seen on one's figure. "Do you have needs to be taken care of before we pass to more serious matters? Because it will be a pleasure to indulge in it," he added in a sing-song manner. In the back of her mind, Gabriel was screaming his indignation. She chose to ignore both of them.

"Why?"

Her eyes left his face, looking far too young and far too affable for what he actually was. Her fingers curled into a tight fist while she was mentally swearing. They had been set up, manipulated from the beginning. And none of them had had any doubts, except for Alangan, maybe. That was enraging to see that they had been nothing more than puppets dancing to the god's strings. The least she could have was some explanations.

"Because."

Loki lifted a hand from her shoulder. With it, he cupped her face, forcing her to look at him as he caressed her cheeks with a fake tenderness. Kára felt her stomach contract with disgust. Then, he moved it to her hair to play with her curls.

"Of love," he finished with a satisfied grin. "Like you, Nords, I love my family very dearly…" he stopped a for while, rolling his eyes when added, "Well, except for that poor and boring Sigyn. But well, let's say it's the exception which proves the rule." He shrugged. "And so, I love my brother. Your bloodline always was dear to my brother and your father, Heimkell? Oh _dear_! Anyway, what I mean is that you're loved by my brother, and for that, I love you guys."

His voice was so sweet it ached to hear it. It felt like a poisoned honey was slowly sinking its fangs into her. He purred, "But Sökkólfr, you see, he was my favorite mortal, always had been since I first met him. He was my liege, under my protection. Why did he die? Because of his feud with your kin. And my son, Jörmungandr? That injuries my brother's son inflicted on him were pretty bad, you know. And who convoked Thor into the battle? Your kin, again. See the link here?"

"You unleashed Jörmungandr in the first place," she spat. Was he really serious? So, all of this was because of a grudge lasting from twenty years ago? This was so messed up and infantile. She took a deep breath to give herself courage, speaking before the god answered.

"You don't react well when things don't go your way, do you?" She laughed when saying that. Because playing brave and insolent were better than weeping on her fate. And if she could find some satisfaction in Loki's disgruntled face before dying, it was all for the best. He didn't look annoyed though, only grinned from ear to ear, like she had just told the best joke ever.

"Well, my dear, let's review our situation." He started counting on a hand. "Your son is dead. Your companions are also dead. You'll be dead in no time. And not to forget, your whole bloodline—not that you are many anyway—will meet the same fate. The answer to your question is pretty clear, I reckon. And things did go my way. My brother will be very saddened by your demise and the fall of the Himinsfall clan. That's my little revenge on him."

_Kára, please, say yes. I'll protect you,_ Gabriel said in her mind. But like the other times, she ignored him. He wouldn't be able to do anything for her anyway, not if she didn't let him borrow her body like Adalrikr had done with Castiel. She had seen the results; there was no way she would let that happen to her, no matter what he said. She was tired of being played by supernatural beings like she was a mere toy.

"Moreover," the god continued. "That pretty spirit—or whatever he is—who took a liking to you and follow you like a good dog, I very curious of what his reaction will be. He seems interesting."

"You really are a bastard," Kára replied when she heard Gabriel cursing Loki in languages she couldn't understand.

"Hello," he said, loud and haughty. His voice was nothing but a whole bag of smug and condescension. "They call me Loki."

She felt his hand going down her back, just between her shoulder blades, right in the middle of Gabriel's mark. He pressed her against his chest before murmuring into her ear, "Now, milady, it's time for you to make your goodbyes."

Flashes of memories passed. These numerous tranquil evenings when sitting by Aldi's bedside, Thórvaldr and her read stories and legends to their beloved son to lull him to sleep, before blowing the lantern's flame when the little sunshine was finally asleep. Her spouse, who was still waiting for her in Thorhöll, while protecting her brother. Hopefully, he wouldn't join her in the after life before long while herself would find Aldi, wherever he was.

There was also these afternoons when of her much younger years, playing at the city's feet with her brothers and the other children of that time with an unstained joy; a time when the battle of Loptbord hadn't happened yet, and none of them were orphans. She thought of Trjónn who had died in the battle, at her father's side. And of course, his sister and her fellow valkyrie and best friend, Róta, whose body had been torn in two when Fáfnir's tail had taken her. There were also the brothers Rafn and Arnulfr, who had taken their parents' charge after their death. Arnulfr and his young apprentice, who had put an end to the dragon thanks to Castiel's help, at the price of both lives.

Róta and Arnulfr had always been her companions, and she hoped to join them in Valhalla.

"You won't suffer, I promise," Loki said gently.

Kára thought of her other mates. The childish joy of Adalrikr and the easy smile of Myr, both of them promised to a bright future before Death had taken them. Hárbjarg's loud laughters and Alangan accompanying him with these high-pitched chuckles of her, as she played with her hairy goatee. In the meantime, the skald would play, as skillfully as ever, providing a beautiful musical background to their life every time he could. She felt her guts clench at the thought.

_Gabriel?_ She wished things hadn't gone that way. However, according to Loki's own words and scheme: no matter how the events would have happened, the results would have been the same in the end. If she could though, she wouldn't let him have his way further. The dead were dear to her heart, but there were also so many livings who also counted. She couldn't let them die at Loki's hands. The god had messed with them enough already. She might be only a mortal and ignore what an archangel was, if she was as important to Gabriel as he made it seem like, he would be listen to her last will. She had already seen glimpses of his strength and was sure he could, at least, annoy Loki a lot, and put a hold to his plans.

_Yes?_ Gabriel answered, his voice full of hope. She felt the nudge of his feathers, like a gentle caress on the small of her back. He hissed when Loki put his head on her shoulder. She prayed to the Allfather.

"I'm sorry," Loki muttered. But Kára knew he wasn't. "I can't let your soul go to my brother's side. But my daughter will take care of you," he added, and the valkyrie felt his grin against her skin, where her armor had been crushed earlier, in the nape of her neck. She quivered with revulsion, loathing that a mere mortal like her couldn't harm an Ás.

_The ones left in Thorhöll. Protect them for me, they are my family._

She just had the time to register Gabriel's shriek before the world went black.


	2. Dawn

Sorry for the lateness. Anyway, I hope you'll like this chapter.

* * *

**DAWN**

* * *

**Chapter summary: **This is the beginning of a new day. Gabriel once again seeks solace in the Clepsydre while Kára is already engaged in battle. Nothing unusual for them.

* * *

"There are times when solitude is better than society, and silence is wiser than speech. "  
― Charles H. Spurgeon

* * *

With a graceful barrel, Gabriel dodged a lightning bolt. It only grazed him, making his feathers ruffled. A second one came soon after, hitting an image of him, that crashed into the ground with a dramatic flash when it vanished into the air. No damage whatsoever since that one had been a mere clone, but he still let his annoyance and anger echo through the link tying every member of the Host to each other.

If Raphael as well as some lesser angels sent him words of sorriness and support, Michael and Lucifer payed no mind to him. No surprise here,but it was still as infuriating as in the beginning. Obviously, that was without mentioning the insufferable racket their constant arguments made in everyone's heads; Raphael and himself much more victims than anyone else as they could hear more thoughts than the others. Nor their destructive behavior each time their Dad wasn't home—that happened more and more frequently—like both of them conveniently forgot how to be civilized. One day, He would be back to a field of nothingness because the two idiots wouldn't have been able to control their temper.

The archangel let out a relieved sigh when a lightning bolt dissolved far above him, before it became a threat. The sky was gradually becoming clearer as the Astrolabe came into perception. Gabriel let himself rise, then stretched out his wings to plane over the silvery waters it was constructed on, taking a childish glee on letting the tip of his feathers brushing the liquid to make trails in his wake, while disrupting the dragonflies buzzing on the surface, and the fishes just under.

The site consisted of nine circles—tympans—of stepped pyramids. The mater, the largest tympan by far with its many buildings circled the eight others, whose size decreased each time, until the inner circle that was composed of only four pyramids, the highest ones, each placed at a cardinal direction. A multitude of walkways and bridges linked the different buildings, creating a complex but beautiful heap of iridescent tunnels of glass as angels came and left in an endless stream, their wings like shifting little color balls from the distance.

Since it was the center of Heaven and stood just under the Garden, it was so bathed in their Dad's power that even his idiot brothers' petty fights couldn't scratch it. Their attacks would only disperse in the air if they fell in a certain perimeter around the Astrolabe. Which were very fortunate, because it was the most important place in Heaven, where the Host's whole infrastructures were situated, from the halls were the cherubs hatched, to their own offices. Without that, Heaven wouldn't be able to function at all. Also, it had became a haven for those who weren't willing to take part in the oldest children of God's little war-games. People like him.

Or people who were pretty serious about their duty, Gabriel thought as he flew straight to the inner tympan. He landed on the top of the obelisk built in its middle, its foundations buried in the water. From here, he could admire the waterfalls falling from Eden, above, like a shimmering veil around the Astrolabe.

_You're back_.

Like always, Ezekiel's deep voice found its way into his mind, stronger than the rest of the Host. His mate greeted him with a brief caress of his wings as he came next to Gabriel, but far enough to not be touching refrained himself from orderingthe seraph to scout closer; he wasn't bratty enough to use his authority to order such a thing from his _mate_. Moreover when he was very aware of Ezekiel's effort to do the wing-touching salute, as the angel never had been one for public display of affection. A thing his brothers—as mostly Lucifer—would often tease him with, like being mated to an archangel was something worth bragging _except _if it was to Gabriel.

_How did it go?_

_Good. I like the kid, he's like a little ball of sunshine_._ And pretty perceptive also, he saw right at the moment what I wanted. _In fact, the child had been much more smarter than what he had thought. Incredibly witty and a little too audacious for someone in front of an archangel, not that he knew what an angel was to begin with. That had greatly amused Gabriel._ Authorized me to use his appearance though, kind of dared me in fact._

_You didn't have to ask him_, the seraph replied back, his words filled with a perplexed curiosity. Gabriel let his mate touch his mind. As usual, Ezekiel was nothing but cautious and delicacy, trying not to overstep any boundaries the archangel could have had, even when the later never ceased to tell him how he wasn't against any little mental nudging from him. To which, Ezekiel stiffened in an awfully comical manner before smacking him like he was a disobedient cherub. That time, the seraph stood still for a while, sorting what he had seen. Then, he tilted his head on the side. _You still do not wish to be like your brothers._

_Did you meet them?_ Gabriel said in a petulant, but joking tone, while pointing to the sky with the tip of his superior wings.

It hadn't a single definite hue, more like an entire palette of ever-changing colors that swirled, sometimes forming big cotton-like clouds. They were stars sprayed in it, like a fine layer of glitters. Lighting illuminated it, resonating with his brothers' words as they were arguing.

_Not a great example to follow__, don't you think?_ Gabriel added with a dry chuckle._ If I can, I prefer to have the consent of the ones I'll be masquerading as. Will you come with me this time? _

_I have duties to take care of, brother. _He already had interrupted them to see the though he didn't voice it, the slight reproach in his tone was clear.

_At least come with me in the Clepsydre, Zeke. I won't detain you more than that_, Gabriel replied back, immediately willing them in front of the obelisk without waiting for his response, part of their inferior wings bathing in the water. There wouldn't be anyone to complain if Ezekiel was with his archangel of a mate, anyway. Except the seraph himself, now scowling and wings flapping with annoyance under his touch, although he didn't speak.

The doors closed after them when they entered the corridor leading to the core of the world suddenly became quiet. The voice of the Host went totally silent, making Gabriel's wings flutter with relief. As often these times, the place was devoid of any presence, nobody really interested with watching the Earth from here when there was a civil war raging outside.

Truth to be told, the absence of his siblings was nothing less than appeasing; lately, except for his mate, he hadn't found any solace in their presence. And certainly not with the other archangels, whom he avoided as much as possible.

The injury they had inflicted on his superior-left wing had been healed a long time ago, but the emotional trauma of the knowledge they could harm him still weighed on him. Much more than what he had like to admit. That day, something in how Gabriel perceived his brothers had Lucifer's attentions nor Michael's profuse apologizes could modify that. Not when Gabriel knew they could harm him by accident, which they already had.

His last and first experience had been particularly displeasing; he wasn't keen on reliving it. It had so profoundly scarred him that—at totally random times—he would feel where a scathe had been, a sharp white pain like a tangible memory of the hole that had been there. The agony of feeling his flesh being vaporized into nothingness as the tissues were torn apart by the bolt. Knowing it was an illusion, a mere carnal reminiscence wasn't of any help. If anything, it made things worse to think that he couldn't move past the recollections.

Sensing his trouble, Ezekiel shifted next to him, spreading his four wings out in an invitation Gabriel would never refuse. He traced the clear crystal blue feathers,their fairer tips faintly glistening while dark veins ran through it, making them an exquisite blue monochrome. The archangel rejoiced in gently rubbing it until their watery texture took a more solid and rugged form around the edges, like pure and brut stones.

When he felt Ezekiel softening, Gabriel wrapped his own wings around them, pressing their bodies together, each finding solace in the other's embrace. The ball of entangled limbs they formed slowly drifted in the middle sphere; the droplets of the silvery liquid in suspension in the air sliding on them, but never wetting the points they touched.

The Clepsydre was a unique spot in in the whole universe, Gabriel thought, staring at the polychrome lights of countless stars while Ezekiel was stroking the small messy feathers growing where his wings and body were connected. Even if its entrance was in the center of Heaven, the place itself stood somewhere in outer space, moving through it. The void beyond the glass was a comforting view in these agitated times, its relative stillness never ceasing to soothe him.

_Take care of you, brother_, Ezekiel said after a while, disengaging from their embrace. _See you later_, he added while fondling Gabriel's wings.

They quivered in acknowledgement and gratitude, but the archangel made none movementswhatsoever when his mate departed. His attention was on the imposing throne in the center of the sphere, carved into a crystalline material reflecting the starlights, like a small sun illuminating its surrounding. Meanwhile he knew it would be empty —it was only a reflection of the one in the Garden anyway— he couldn't help the stare at it, nor the flinch of his wings when he thought of His presence in the place, more glorious and kind than anything else. And four cherubs, the firsts of a whole kind, perched on the high armrests, bathing in His mightiness.

However, he soon turned away not to linger on the growing sensation of despair in him, gulping down the wail he knew he would have produced otherwise. He wasn't here to dwell in his spleen, or weep for a past already accomplished and that couldn't be changed. He wasn't like his brothers, he wouldn't let himself lament again and again over things like that.

Instead, the Gabriel grabbed one of the innumerable glass balls floating around. With a deference he rarely used these days, like the precious treasure it was, he delicately cupped it within his middle that, the archangel let his other wings wrap around him, keeping his body in a bright iridescent cocoon.

With care, Gabriel infused some of his grace in the transparent material, watching it dissolve with a cherubin mirthwhen the silvery liquid it contained expanded in the air, like it was stretching. For a little while, it moved in his feathers, slithering between them to finally form a sphere rotating on itself.

He leant over it, observing the images reflected on its surface. Eventually Gabriel went completely still, his consciousness far from Heaven, the Clepsydre and the fightings outside it.

* * *

Men dropped like flies around them, the smell of fresh blood going heavier with each new two valkyries stood back to back, slowly tracing circles, pushing back and killing their enemies with a facility they weren't used to. Not that it was surprising coming from a band of novice brigands, pushing their luck a little too much. Kára suspected they were former farmers, with much more experience with a fork than any real weapons. Any trained warrior would have been able to defeat them. In a way, she felt a little disappointed they weren't a challenge, not that she would admit that out loud ever.

Róta however, hadn't such qualms, as she eventually said, "That's really no fun." That sure changed a lot from bunches vættir and their followers. "I actually feel bad for them. This isn't rig—" Her friend was interrupting by the sharp sound of metal on metal. There was a loud scream then the thud of a fallen body. "They shouldn't be out there in the wild. I wish we weren't doing that right now. That's not even a fight, look at them!"

"I know." On that point at least, they agreed. Going around killing almost defenseless persons had a bitter taste. Still, seeing the circumstances, there weren't other choices and, if needed, she would do it again anytime.

And Róta was aware of her position on that matter, which were the reason she lowered her voice, disapproval in her tone when she replied, "The draugar must have attacked their farm. This is not their fault and you can't be so casually okay with that. That's wrong, Kára."

As sad as it was, that kind of story was beginning to happen frequently, no less than one attack per week. That was bound to happen because of the increasing number of draugar roaming out of their barrows. A number that would most likely only increase as time would go by: until now, its augmentation had been steady and she couldn't see why that would stop anytime the sorrowful consequences were many farmers leaving their lands, some of them becoming mere outlaws. Thus, the roads weren't as safe as they should have been. The fact they had lost far too many men in a too short timespan was the most jarring thing.

"Their actual way of life, the path they've chosen to walk on, is their own choice." Kára couldn't help the frown on her face while she continued, "Coming to Thorhöll and seeking help from Reifr would have been the right thing to do. He would have given them new lands, and send us."

The leather of her gauntlet scrunched when she tightened her fists around her spear. She wished the bandits would be more reckless to work out some of her frustration on them. They had been in the beginning, charging at them without any formation, their number greatly reduced by the chaos that had followed. The seven left were far more cautious now, not approaching the five feet area her spear could cover and eyeing warily at Róta's axe.

At the moment, they were only observing them, and she caught one looking at the edge of the trees, surely searching for an escape path. Or not, she thought when she saw the high figure emerging from the woods, a broad man made of nothing but muscles, only a fur cloak over his barren chest. He had a giant axe that seemed to weigh nothing in his large hands. He was coming to them at a fast pace, and seeing how the former farmers stepped back to clear him a path, he was no friend.

"Their demise is the consequence of their choices, the responsibilities they have to assume."

The words came out of her mouth without her even thinking about it. Between them, similar discussions had happened a few times sudden multiplication of the draugar's number through the clanhold had brought misery to the land and it was inevitable thatcertain people dealt with it by turning to despicable ways of life, as dangerous for the other clansmen as monsters. While Róta naturally sympathized with their loss and sufferings, would be more inclined to spare them if possible; in Kára's mind,they were to be treated as nothing else than outlaws and dealt with as such. As protectors of the hold, it was their duty.

"They're outlaws attacking innocent people. No better than pests or harmful vættir, and have to be treated as such."

Snow splashed everywhere as the valkyries rolled on the soft ground, out of the giant axe trajectory. Because of the recoil, the bigman staggered back, thrown out of balance by the force of his swing. His guard was left wide open when he tried to regain his position. It was all Kára needed to launch a blow to his stomach. She turned her spear in his bowels until it impaled him, its head coming out of his back.

She didn't linger on his stunned expression when he fell to the ground, not quite dead yet. Her next adversary was already at her, sword held high to strike, screaming to give himself courage. The hit, clumsy and weak, bounced on her shield. When he stepped back, his heavy pantingand hand on his side like he had a stitch. It was clear his little assault had weakened him much more than it would, have had he been a warrior. That was a shame he wasn't: she liked his boldness and would have appreciated having a real battle against that kind of foe.

When she released her spear to fall back into a more practical position, she swore loudly. Despite his tall height and bulky size, filling every bit of his worn tunic, he was only a boy with a round face full of freckles, not much older than twelve winters. Young enough to still be playing with wooden toys and hide-and-seek with his friends in the woods, when he wasn't helping his parents or with his master.

"What's your name, boy?" she asked as she unsheathed her sæx, appreciating its familiar weight in her hand.

"Uh! You're gonna kill me anyway!" he spat with the harsher accent most peasants had. Even if he was staring at her with eyes full with defiance,his limbs were trembling. His Adam's apple was bobbing up and down.

"Kára daughter of Heimkell of the clan Himinsfall." She put her right hand over her chest in the formal valkyrian salute, fingers brushing her left spaulder, where her crest lied. "Chosen by the Allfather to select and guide to Asgard those I see fit."

"A valkyrie!" he gasped. For one instant, awe animated him, his expression were nothing but childish wonder. Then, it was gone and he pouted, his grip tighter on his sword's hilt. The valkyrie couldn't help but finding it kind of cute, reminding her of another boy. She mentally smiled when he pursued,"You can't be! That can't be… That's impossible!"

"At my hand," Kára said like he hadn't spoke. "You'll meet an end of honor, worthy of the warrior you could have grown up to be in other circumstances. My prayers shall guide your soul to Valhalla, where it will rest. Now, boy, give me your name."

Her tone was firmer that time, almost parental. That made him even more nervous and he nibbled on his lower lip, as if uncertain of what to do. In contrast to that, his grasp on his weapon grew a little more secure. He opened his mouth a few time, about to speak but backed off. He eventually shook his head.

"You lie, woman! Uh! D'you think I'm gonna believe _I'm_, me the simple farmer boy, chosen to go the Allfather? You're stu—"

He stopped right in his tracks when Kára shushed him with a hand gesture. She rolled her eyes, nevertheless spoke a softer, "I'm not an adept of me, I'm not a fool, I would never try to imprecate such a holy title by usurping it. The Allfather is kind neither with usurpation nor deception."

There was a small silence before he sighed. "Gunngeirr son of Gunnólfr. There." With the tip of his sword, he showed the big man her lance was in, his face growing dim and eyes watery. He looked down and his voice was shaking when he continued, "That's my pop right there. These things, you know, they… By the Allfather, it was so horrible! Mom and Frida, my lil sis. And my big bro too." He lifted his head, looking at her with clear eyes, sniffling a few time. "Will you hunt them?"

Kára inclined her head, putting her sæx's hilt on her heart as she answered with gravity, "I am a protector of Himinsfall. It's my duty to hunt whose menacing the hold." Then, she readied herself for combat. "Now, Gunngeirr Gunnólfson, prepare to die."

When Gunngeirr rose his weapons, he bit his lip and drew blood, as if it would stop his body's quivering. Kára could see the sweat pearling on his brow and the flare of his nostrils. His fear seemed almost tangible, within range if she stretched a hand to touch it. But his stare itself, was unwavering, sharp and determined.

Kára took a deep breath. Her sæx pierced his heart before the boy had the time to move. The prayer he was reciting died on his lips as he toppled over the valkyrie. Maintaining him against her with one hand, she pushed her sword out of him, then swept it on his tunic before sheathing it. Then, she crouched squatted down, putting his head on her knees. She removed her right gauntlet to soak their tips of her index and middle finger with Gungeirr's blood.

First, she closed his eyelids, sighing with relief not to have him stare at her with lifeless eyes anymore. Then she was tracing runes on his face, bright red lines faintly glistening on his tanned skin. Finally, she put a thumb on his lips, dry and creaky, and chanted the galdr to send him to the Allfather.

When she finally felt the soul departing the body, the valkyrie bowed low, addressing prayers and praises to the Allfather.

"This is also what I call wrong, Kára." The sudden hand on her shoulder startled Kára, but she relaxed when recognizing Róta's sweet voice. "Do you really think the boy had a choice in the path his father had chosen, when he was his only family left? The children shouldn't have to suffer for the mistakes of their parents. How many of them have we killed already?"

There was nothing Kára could answer to that. They couldn't let these children live, for the danger they represented in the long term. Still, she had never been a monster, and she also was a mother. The duty of the valkyries shouldn't have included the demise of mere children, whose cause of death was nothing more than misfortune.

She washed her fingers with snow and stood up in silence.A look around informed her that Róta had already disposed of the other men. She felt a little bad she had let Róta do most of the friend brushed her apologies with a smile.

"Let's go. It's only the beginning of the day and we have Febœr to visit and, without a doubt, a long road full of surprises ahead."

Kára nodded while putting her gauntlet back on her Arnulfr had caught the trails left by the bandits, they had been on their way to the Febœr farm, where draugar had last been spotted. Róta had statued the criminals had to be dealtwith before they resumed their current now, the veidimadr was waiting for them at the little pond where their group had halted, keeping their mounts and thralls safe. They couldn't stay here longer than necessary.

The dead would have to wait, she thought as she withdrew her spear from the boy's father's belly. She cleaned the body fluids with a chunk of his tunic, averting her eyes from Gunngeirr, only a few feet away, like that would push the younger's face in the back of her mind, where she wouldn't be able to see it.

Although she recited galdrar and ancient poems to distract herself from the thoughts, it failed. Vivid hazel irises werestaring at her with this awe most children felt for their parents during their youth. Gunngeirr had Aldi's eyes, messy flaxen blond curls that stuck everywhere, and freckles also, albeit Aldi —like his father— only had his cheekbones and nose covered with it whereas Gungeirr's whole face was spread with it.

Truth to be told, it was the sole features they shared: Gunngeirr was taller than Aldi, rude work making him much more muscular, with a skin tanned by hour spent outside while Aldi had been a small child with soft curves and a pale skin tone. Still, Kára couldn't help drawing a parallel between the two boys: their dea—

She shook her head: thinking about it wouldn't do any good. She had to stop before dwelling into parts of her spirit she didn't want to see.

"When was the last time you sent someone to Valhalla?" Kára finally let the questions slip out of her lips, kind of wishing that speaking about anything would help her to concentrate on something else.

Róta, who was walking a little ahead of her, stopped right in her tracks. Branches cracked under her feet when she turned back to watch her with undecipherable light brown eyes, her expression far more grave than usual. For moments, she seemed so lost in her thoughts that nothing could have troubled her; not that Kára would have done anything to do so. She wouldn't even dare moving, as if the tiniest movement would disturb her friend. Now, she began to feel bad about that. On the top of that, Aldi's face superposed on Gunngeirr's wouldn't vanish from her mind.

"A very long time." Róta swallowed a few time, beginning sentences only to stop in the middle of it, and then shaking her head like words escaped her grasp. Kára's fingers twitched at each try and she fisted them, wondering if she should stop her companion.

"The Battle of Loptbord," Róta eventually said, her jaw clenched and face grim. "I've never sent a single soul to the Allfather since then." She made a long pause, a hand touching the dark brown cormorant feathers decorating the long braid on the side of her face. "The number of souls the valkyries sent to the Allfather… I _really_ hope no valkyrie will have to do such a thing in the future."

She grimaced, looking away for an instant before looking into Kára's eyes, caramel-coloured irises full with gravity when she continued, "Since then, the warriors I met and defeated never seemed valorous enough for me to guide them to Valhalla. Sometimes, I even catch myself thinking that almost no one deserves that honor anymore." Her hand fall back on her side and she made a little smile. "Fortunately for me, the Allfather hasn't yet expressed any discontentment with me. But I think that might be because Ölrún, Skuld and you are doing a very good job at sending beautiful souls to Him."

Her smile widened and even if there were no wrinkles in the corner of her eyes, it made Kára feel better. When the older woman winked at her, she rolled her eyes in a fake annoyance.

"Anyway, I'm sure that boy will find solace at His side. You did the right thing, Kára, don't worry about it," Róta said, putting a hand on her friend's shoulder.

Kára didn't answer, but she nodded. She stepped back from the physical contact that felt a little bit too heavy; it wasn't about Gunngeirr she worried after all for she knew she had done the right thing. She had only brought the subject to think of anything that wasn't Aldi, reminding her friend of awful memories and that made her feel guilty.

"We shouldn't make the others wait more," she eventually said, uneasy under the other's steady gaze, as if she knew her response hadn't given solace to Kára at all. Said woman masked her unease by brushing a red curl off her face as she resumed walking.

When they reached the pond not long after, Kára was relieved to see that everyone was there, safe and sound. The horses were gathered next to a patch of tall grasses half-covered with snow, munching on it happily. Adalrikr and the thralls' noisy chatter greeted them as they approached, while Arnulfr nodded at them, already mounting back on his grey horse.

Kára went straight to Logior,patting the stallion on his neck before getting on his saddle. He snorted with annoyance when she ordered him away from the bushes he had been chewing on, splattering around more snow than necessary and making the horses next to him whine. That made her chuckle lightly.

As the group left the pond a few moments later, in the corner of her eyes, she caught hazel-eyed and curly blond-haired children watching her intently. She turned away, her fists tight around the reins, wishing her mind would stop playing cruel tricks on her.


	3. Words

Sorry for the lateness (again).

* * *

**WORDS**

* * *

**Chapter summary: **Through Metatron, God delivers promises of future battles. Battles of all kind are also what Kára knows are mapping their road to the end of their journey, a final destination that at last, acquires a name. Words are spoken and plans are being made.

* * *

A soft heart, that hates the vast and dark void,  
From the radiant past hoards any fragments!  
The sun has drown in its own thickening blood...  
Your memory glows in me like an ostentory!  
― _Evening harmony_, Charles Baudelaire

* * *

They were a tangled mess, feathers sticking out everywhere like a spiky ball, but content and comfortable as they watched the ichor's golden shimmer gradually turn to its usual silver and retract into its receptacle. The archangel cursed the fact that due to the place's nature, they couldn't sense anything beyond its entrance. That was the reason why Ezekiel's quiver stung Gabriel in sensible points when the Clepsydre's doors opened, and also shattering the cosy silence between the two of them.

The Morning Star came strolling in, bright and fierce as usual, wings held high and spread out, like there was someone to impress here. Gabriel's tip of wings twitched with amusement at the useless display before choosing to ignore his brother for the time being, in order to extricate his wings from his mate's, both of them wincing the times they were just a little more rough than necessary.

_Go, we'll see each other later_, the archangel told his mate when they were eventually done, flapping to let ragged feathers fall. _Thanks for passing by_.

Ezekiel nodded and obeyed. When Lucifer passed next to him, the seraph bowed low to him, his two pairs of wings plastered against the ground in submission and obedience. His older brother answered the salute with a pat, before turning his full attention to Gabriel, whose wings were lazily draped on the throne's stairs like a veil.

He couldn't help the admirative whistle at how much disgust Lucifer's grace exuded, waves of a hate carefully controlled, but intense enough to knock the ichor balls out of his way, like he was chasing away a swarm of gross things. As if the devices where almost as bad as these puny humans the Morning Star despised so much, without even letting a chance to prove themselves. Just because their Dad treasured them more than him. What a brat.

"Hey, Lucy." Gabriel extended his grace to brush his brother's in greeting. Lucifer returned it with a gently stroke of feathers, stepping back when the other said, "Mike and you already finished? Because I'd like to able to go out of here without one of you thinking I'm a great target."

The acid in his words might have been unnecessary, but he took a vicious pleasure to use it. He definitely wasn't over what had happened to his wing, no matter how many years had passed.

"Don't be like that, Gabriel. Not my fault this time, I promise." Lucifer shuddered. "Not that _you_ were really the target, mind you. "

"According to you, it's never your fault. That could easily have been me and my wings. Remember last time? When I was at the receiving end? It really hurt. I don't want to experience that, _ever again._" He winced, unconsciously reaching for his superior-left wing, where the injury had been.

"The Imprisonment of Eve, the Fall of Babel, Sodom and Gomorrah, and so many other battles." Mockery dripped in his tone when he continued, "Gabriel, commander of the Lord's army upon the Earth, you have suffered much worse injuries, haven't you?"

Gabriel scowled and glared at him. Yes, he had seen much worse in past battles but, "Never by my own brethren's hands," he finished aloud, venom in his voice. His wing twitched again.

His brother didn't seem to notice the gesture, probably ignored it along with his words. He took him into one of these strong and reassuring embrace he liked to give the other angels when he was satisfied with them, telling them how much he loved them. Always a charmer the Morning Star was.

"Congratulations!" Lucifer was literally beaming. "That clone you exchanged place with when the bolt was about to hit you? It was perfect. I was sure you'd succeed. Funny little trick clones are, don't you think?"

Gabriel was totally _not_ grinning, proudness and gladness going from one archangel to the other through their graces. He even smacked Lucifer in retaliation when the latter ruffled his feathers.

"Bro, stop speaking to me like I'm a cherub. It's kind of unnerving."

Lucifer used the same playful tone as his fellow archangel. "Careful, Gabriel, the more time you pass in this place, the more irritable you become." He added his voice lower, "You might want to check that."

And stop watching little bipedal cockroaches, they're not worthy of your time, was what his brother left unsaid. However the message was clear as Lucifer knocked away a glass ball when it touched him, like an abomination had dared to touch him.

That irritated Gabriel more than anything else he could have said. As long as he didn't neglect his duties—which he fortunately wasn't—what he was doing with his time was none of Lucifer's concern. What did he want him to do? Stop heavenly wars? That was definitely not within his area of competence, nor his will as he didn't want to interfere with his brothers' petty fight. So, if he watched over humans to avoid them, it was his own problem. Lucifer, amongst all, had nothing to say.

"Still better than what Mike and you do when Dad has His back turned. _I_'m not trying to break Heaven, _me_." His brother stiffened, but refrained from any comment, and Gabriel was grateful for that. He didn't wish them to have a confrontation of any sort. "So now, why don't you tell me what you want with me, so that we both go back to more interesting things?" he asked rather abruptly to change the subject.

Lucifer wasn't bothered; he didn't push the delicate subject further. Instead, he shuddered when replying, "The little scribe has received a Word from our mighty Dad. He summoned the archangels. The four of us."

Well, that was unusual. Metatron had always been secretive about what he received from their Dad, unwilling to translate the weird language—they weren't even able to read it—he was writing in.

"What makes it different from the usual blah-blah? It's not like he even cared about telling us what Dad wants him to write."

When they had asked him, he merely had dismissed them like they were nothing, told them it wasn't meant for them. They would have gladly given him a reminder of their status, but their Dad had been adamant about the annoying angel: Metatron had been chosen to receive His Words, he was to be treated with as much respect and deference as Him. In that way, the guy was pretty much off-limits and all archangels avoided him as much as possible. The scribe did the same, and until now all had been rather good. As long as he stayed away from them, they wouldn't touch him.

"I don't know, it might be important." Lucifer shrugged. There was a feral edge in his next words. "It'd better be important. If it isn't worth it, we'll just have to punish him. A little reminder that archangels aren't at his service, even if he's Dad's precious pen."

"Well," Gabriel sneered, mischief in his voice when he pursued, "Even if we don't touch him or anything else. There are _so _many way to intimidate him and, with four of us, it should be pretty easy. The little coward is already afraid of us anyway. We can easily play on that."

"What are you thinking of?"

"Isn't it time to remind the Host that their archangels can work together if they put their mind into it?" Gabriel was already amused at what Metatron's reaction would be when he would find out. "We'll do that in the Garden. An official audience like if Dad was there."

That made Lucifer laugh as they slipped out of the Clepsydre. Raphael and Michael were at the entrance, staring at them with a questioning gaze. Gabriel was glad to see the merry flutter of their wings when he explained the details of his little scheme. At least, for the moment, his brothers weren't fighting and the respite was so very welcomed. Even if it meant they had to deal with Metatron.

_METATRON!_

Gabriel was nothing but pure smugness when he felt the angel flinch, stuttering and shaking. He hadn't aimed for discretion, literary howling his name so loud the Host went suddenly quiet, the attention of legions turning to Metatron and him, curious of what the scribe had done to receive such a call from an archangel.

_As you demanded, the First Choir will receive you. We'll meet you in the Garden, at the feet of the Lord's throne._

They were about to have so much fun!

* * *

When they emerged from the forest, the sun was shining bright in a clear sky. From there, at the edge of the plain, they could see the large mill in its center, and the form of the buildings around. Róta rose a hand in the air, fisting it to make the group come to a halt, in their movements as well as words, each of them attentive to their leader.

"Totti, Agi." Her friend's eyes rested on the two young warriors, who bowed their heads. "Lads, I want you back in Thorhöll." Agmundr was pouting but he didn't dare interrupt the valkyrie. "It's an important mission," Róta added, with an encouraging smile. "Go to the jarl and tell him you bear the words of the valkyrie módir. Ask him a squad and you'll guide them to the pond, where the battleground lies. There, you'll salt and burn every fallen." She turned to Kára, addressing her a large grin. "Except for one young lad. His name's Gunngeirr Gunnólfsson. You won't miss him for he bears the mark of the valkyries on his face. He's to have a sepulture worthy of his status."

Kára sent her a grateful glance, answered by a pat on her shoulder before Róta pursued, "After that, you'll come back here with the men."

"What then?" Agmundr asked, bushy eyebrows frowned, the corners of his mouth down. It was clear he wasn't happy with the orders.

"Vífill and Finn will stay here with further instructions."

While the rest of the group would progress further on their hunt, was left unsaid. Agmundr seemed about to protest but his uncle elbowed him and he settled for a shrug, obviously sulking at being left behind. Kára noted with amusement Vífill's eye roll.

"Understood, lady Róta," Thorsteinn said, bowing his head. He turned to Agmundr, messing playfully with the younger's hair, much to his dismay. "C'mon, Agi. Let's go."

They didn't wait longer to depart, with a few words of encouragement from the others. Then, the group was back on the road, the mood relaxed and chatty. Next to her, Finnbjörn was speaking of his betrothed and the baby expected for the end of the winter, how he hoped the wise women were right and that would be a girl.

"Careful for what you wish, Finn." Vífill was grinning. "You might end up with a bossy future valkyrie in your house. No offense, ladies," he added playfully looking at Róta and her, his laughter creasing the corners of his dark eyes. "But these things you can hear when you pay just a little attention."

"You just listen to Reifr's rambling, don't you?" Kára replied, rolling her eyes as she pictured her brother with a full mead mug in one hand, the other gesturing in the air as he told the guests about their childhood.

"With the four of you, we have plenty of stories going around," Finnbjörg was laughing, his half up ponytail bouncing. He pushed a strand of light-browned hair behind an ear. "And I'm totally willing to put up with a pushy kiddie girl if she's to grown into a beautiful warrior later."

"Yeah right, cousin, just tell you that," Vífill answered back.

Their familiar banter came to a halt when Róta spoke, moments later, as they were less than a mile of Febœr. She told both of them to inspect the surrounding area, searching for any Nords that might have survived the attack, or many threats lingering there.

She didn't wait to see if the warriors were already on their way to address the youngest of their group, her tone softer then before, but nonetheless commanding, "Rik, Myr, why don't you light a fire and fetch one of the goats roaming around here? I'm counting on you, lads!" she added with an encouraging smile.

Adalrikr mumbled something but moved anyway, guiding his horse to the fields where some goats were grazing. In the meantime, Arnulfr dismounted, giving his horse's reins to Myr.

"Take care of Andra," he said to the thrall before he shifted his attention on the valkyries. "I'm going by feet now. Easier to track a trail."

They stopped a few feet of the main building, a large manor, three storeys height of thick dark wood on stone foundations. The three of them let themselves off their saddles, the valkyries leaving their mounts in Myr's care. Kára watched her friend enter the house, memories of many journeys coming to her mind.

Febœr was the hold's largest farm, a commercial hub with their large productions of wheat and goat rearing. It was also a village in itself, a resting point on the road linking Thorhöll to Vatnreid. While the upper levels were home to the families running the place for generations, the ground level was nothing less than a tavern with many rooms, food and music; everything travellers needed after a long day of riding.

On the stairs leading to the large doors, there should have been a line a screaming merchants, while thralls hurried around through a packed yard, busy with work. Children should have been running around, squealing and fighting, under their parents' vigilance.

She walked to the high mill at the far end of the yard, assessing her surroundings in the same time. If not for the occasional crooked planks sticking out of the walls, the buildings hadn't suffered real damages. The ground however was covered in pieces of broken furnitures, and were the snow was melting, she could sometimes see dark stains. Here and there were straw and provisions, which must had been in now-shattered barrels.

The eerie quietness was _wrong_, Kára mused as she was turning a muddy apple in her hand, examining it. She sighed and dropped it, her eyes glancing over the unsalvageable waste at her feet. That was a pity.

As she walked through the domain, also searching in the small dependancies for anyone or anything, she noticed that despite the material traces of battle—dry blood on the mill's stone walls, or arrows stuck into wheat flour bags—there wasn't a single body lying around.

She went out off a shed, a familiar—_too_ familiar—dreadful sense of anticipation dawning on her as she came to the center of the farm, at middle distance between the mill and the house. Then, she crouched, fingers tracing the _mannaz_ rune in the dirt while she murmured one of the aura galdrar.

There was a light pulsing sensation in her eyes, not pleasant but nothing painful. The colors in her vision gradually turned into shades of blue. A human form stepped into her sightline, its outlines almost blurred by the bright orange flame where the heart was. She disinterested herself from the crouching Arnulfr, who now was walking alongside the fence, surely searching for footsteps or any indices of a trail to follow.

She walked through the yard to the paddock, which gates were destroyed. One led into the domain, and the other in the vast plain that had given its name to the farm. There, small lights—the goats—roamed freely. To her right, Myr was skinning one of them while Adalrikr was starting a fire. Absorbed in their tasks, they payed no mind to the valkyrie, who turned back.

At the far end of her field of vision, she watched Finnbjörg and Vífill coming at a fast pace to the farm, alone. She returned to the rune, erasing it with her feet when Arnulfr came to her. She blinked, relieved when the stinging feeling in her eyes vanished.

"No souls linger here. And there are no corpses too. So, it's most likely that all dead have been transformed," she told him, lassitude in her voice. For either, it wasn't a surprise: merely an observation they had done too much time already.

The veidimadr's messy hair slowly returned to a light blond and the tattoo baring his face, from one ear to the other, was a red line once again. His nose was wrinkled and his expression dark when he spoke, "I can't tell exactly when they were here. The snowfall have washed away part of the smell, but it's here, the lingering odor of decay and rotten flesh." He showed a hole in the fence, between a kitchen garden and small storage shed. "And definitely stronger there. I guess we better go this way when we'll finished here. It leads to the East," Arnulfr added after a little silence.

Pictures flashed in Kára's mind at the mention of the East, the unsaid implications: the only place in the eastern part of the hold that could interest the draugar. The world stopped. She felt her body grow tense, childhood memories renewed by the recent events. The death that had reopened old wounds. And again, she was walking into a succession of natural caverns, at the head of a solemn procession, leading them further in the mountain, to the monumental twenty-feet tall doors. She remembered the cold of the grey stone when, as a child, she had traced with awe the outlines of the figures carved into its panels—the ones she could reach anyway—finely sculpted reliefs of passages of Himinsfall's history. She had taken time to read the runes graven into the sculpture, the benediction of the Allfather on these sacred grounds, as well as a warning to all who weren't meant to enter.

And beyond the doors, in the depths of the mountain, majestic halls filled with columns inspired by the ones found in the Southern lands, large and tall. Everywhere were red and white marbles imported from far beyond the Kingdom. They had walked amongst imposing statues of figures of the past, into a silent city. Still, its magnificence had never been enough to bring her solace, and the memories were tied to grief and affliction. The never-en—

_Stop it_. She snapped herself back to reality by bitting into her cheek, the slight pain anchoring her into the present. Arnulfr was watching her with attention, but didn't comment on her absence, and she felt grateful for that.

"Angardr?" she eventually said, her voice less steady than she had liked.

She ran a hand through her hair, playing with a curl, as if it would distract her from uninvited memories of the most unpleasant kind. In the same time, she forced her eyes to focus on the veidimadr's face, tracing the line of his eyebrows, the hairs so pale they were almost invisible.

"Since we've been hunting them, the core of the group have always been heading to the East,"Arnulfr replied grimly. "The Holy Necropolis could be their final destination. It seems legit."

The veidimadr was about to add something, but Finnbjörg interrupted, "We found three of them."

Kára's eyes went on the three full bags Finnbjörg and Vífill were carrying as they came to them. She closed her eyes, muttering prayers to the Allfather while the cousins carefully put them on the ground. In a silent accord, they began to gather wood into a large pile while Arnulfr went back to the horses.

"Halldóra, Finna and Audunn of the Blárhestr clan," Vífill announced. "Shot by arrows, the three of them."

"Right, typical." Kára let out a loud resigned sigh when he came back, a bag in his hand. The pattern was the same every time. "They were the youngest. Children still too young, small and weak to make good draugar," she said as the veidimadr emptying the bag until there was no salt left in it. Finally, they lightened the pyre, accompanying the slow burning by prayers.

Later, Kára wasn't capable to mesure how much time had passed, a loud crackling followed by a short bark of laughter caught their attention, breaking the solemn mood they were caught in.

Arnulfr shook his head, nose wrinkled and blank face while he went to the boys, who were at the other side of the domain. With a skill born from experience, she pushed the swirl of negative feelings in a far corner of her mind, where she wouldn't have to contemplate them. Then, she followed the veidimadr with an amusement hidden by a stoic expression, knowing the younger Nord wouldn't take well the mockery when he was about to reprimand his apprentice and thrall friend. For that matter, said person instantly stop laughing. In the meantime, Adalrikr shifted uncomfortably on the ground, fingers moving with nervousness on the lace of his cloak, as he was used to when he was caught doing something bad or embarrassing.

Kára's eyes went to the hearth were a strip of meat was slowly burning. Obviously, that was another failed try of Adalrikr with the process of drying meat. Not surprising from the young man when he never had to cook himself, always having thralls to cook for him, even during the years he had been placed in a lesser family. Obviously, his return the Gullhaust clan hadn't helped at all, as he had been spoiled like they often were when they moved back within their birth clan. Moreover, this was the first time his master and cousin had allowed him to come with them in a long trip; that sort of things was meant to happen.

She coughed to mask a laugh, making a small gesture of compassion to Myr, who was making hard efforts to stiffen his chuckles when his friend started to grimace, face red with embarrassment.

She saw the illusion then, when looking at the fire. They stood at the other side of the fireplace, seating in the dirt, children with familiar eyes and hair. Their laughters were a wondrous marvel to her ears—a mix of Aldi's soprano voice and Gunngeirr's deeper tone, which made awkward high-pitched slips because of his youth—as they mocked Arnulfr and his cousin, like they were a part of the scene.

Kára pinched herself to make them disappear: there were no way the boys could have been here, and her mind usually never tricked her into such elaborate lucid dreams. Still, with their clear and bright skin — alabaster for one and an olive brown for the other — they seemed as tangible as if they were real, shadows created by the fire dancing on them without dispelling the illusion.

When he caught her stare, Aldi shook his hand with that large grin of him, all big teeth showing while Gunngeirr slowly shook his head, shrugging like his companion were being the most idiotic being on Midgard. Aldi just giggled at his reaction.

"Kára?"

Róta soft voice snapped her back into reality. She hadn't seen her friend coming back, hempen bags in her hands that she piled on the ground. The older woman glanced at the smoke coming from the other side, but made no comment about it, comprehension dawning on her face as she put a hand to her braid. Then, she was looking at her again, waiting for a report.

The children were still visible, but no matter how tentative it was, she couldn't let herself dwell further in her fantasies. She put a hand in her hair, grabbing a few locks and pulling hard at them, letting the irksome sensation preserve her from it. Next, she took a deep breath.

"The area is clear, and no corpses except for the youngest children of the Blárhestr clan." Róta winced, then nodded, encouraging her to continue with a wave of the hand. "We have no indication of how much advance they have over us, but we can confirm they're still heading east, which they've done for as long as we have been hunting them. The core of their horde does anyway, only straying from their path when there're houses and farms in their vicinity. It's like they're trying to build a small army." Kára turned briefly to Arnulfr, who made a small nod. "Arnulfr and me think they might be trying to reach Angardr."

"Building a small army to break into Angardr? That would be logic." Róta hummed her agreement to the theory. "With a little chance, the Holy Necropolis is as warded against undead as it is against living beings." She ended her sentence with a little sigh, but smiled nonetheless. "Not that we can't do much about that for now."

Arnulfr lifted his eyes from the pots Myr had put in the fire, where he was cooking the meat they didn't intend to keep as provisions. "So, what do you want us to do?"

"First thing," Róta answered as Arnulfr and she sat down next to Adalrikr. She turned to Vífill and Finnbjörn who were joining them, placing themselves at the other side of the hearth, where the illusion had been. Kára was relieved to find they had disappeared into thin air, replaced by her two companions, whose attention was on her valkyrie, waiting for her orders.

"You two," she continued. "You'll stay here and wait for Totti, Agi and the other men. We wouldn't want bandits to occupy the place, would we? As for the rest, we'll head to Vatnreid, stay there for the night. Tomorrow will be a long ride to Angardr. Send a message of our intention to the jarl, he'll want to know what we're up to. Now!" Róta turned to Aldarikr and Myr with a large grin. "Lads, what about grabbing a bite before returning on the road? The meat you're cooking looks delicious and I found some vegetables in the kitchen."

She pointed at one of the bags. Kára tossed it to the boys before taking place next to the veidimadr.

"So, how were these bandits?" Adalrikr asked curiously, knife in hand and already cutting a leek. "I'd like to fight them."

"They were former farmers, not fighters." Róta answered, shaking her head. She took a cheese wheel out of a bag to slice it. "They wouldn't have been much of a challenge for even a warrior in formation."

"A fight's still a fight. There's always things to be learnt."

Kára caught Vífill's snicker at the youngest enthusiasm and he winked at her. Róta wasn't sharing his amusement though; her friend knew how much she despited having to fight, execute, these people.

Arnulfr's scowl was eloquent enough on what he thought of the statement. Still, he spoke aloud, making his point clear for his apprentice, "There's nothing to be learnt from people who don't know anything." His tone was dry when he added, "Would you ask Myr to teach you reading?"

Myr sent an apologetic smile to his friend.

* * *

The sky had shifted to a canvas of dark colors with nebulous clouds sprinkled over it, in an imitation of the space. There was even a few moons casting shimmering lights on the Garden and the Astrolabe beneath. The archangels were in the central part of Eden, floating above a large pond where many species of waterlilies grew, garnishing its surface with what seemed like colorful candles glowing under the moonlights. Fireflies as well as dragonflies buzzed over the waters, and a few herons, their long legs taking careful steps while they were examining the depths, waiting to catch the Koi carps populating the area.

Joshua had retreated beyond the pond's limits to tend to other parts of Eden, pretexting he preferred to leave them enough privacy for what they were about to do, much to their amusement: they had made it clear they weren't aiming for a nice little audiences between closed walls and psychic barriers.

No, they were following Gabriel's idea of a brilliant display of power and authority, because hey! Metatron's summoning had happened at a perfect moment to remind the Host their archangels' divergences of opinions didn't erase their bonds. They were brothers and loved each others very much, thank you.

So here they were, at the feet of their Dad's lantern-shaped crystal throne, its heavy curtains closed as they had always been since He had created the rest of the Host. He had never let anyone but his first-born angels see Him.

Positioned at equidistance from each other, each above a circular platform of the same clear material as the throne, engraved with Enochian sigils as they as their names and titles. Their wings were extended to their full size, interlaced to form around the throne and them, a cocoon, its aqueous shell iridescent. They seemed like a closed lotus-shaped sculpture with a prismatic structure, bathing the open hall in shifting polychrome lights.

Because the Lord's throne room was the highest point of Heaven, and its center, they knew they were like a sun, much brighter than anything and for now, visible to anybody, angels and humans confounded.

For the occasion, like his fellow archangels, Gabriel had stripped off of the psychic veil that dampened their thought waves to a standard angelic intensity, which basically meant the Host could read them—_most_ of them anyway, they were thing in their minds that weren't meant to be shared—as if they were mere angels. They felt the confusion of the weakest Choir, overwhelmed with raw power they weren't used to, and the whispers of reassurance of the oldest Choir that it was how the Host had been once.

Individuals who were almost a sole entity once their wings and grace entwined, with the archangels at the top, linking them to their Lord and Father.

For a while, they reveled in the Host awe, their songs of love and devotion to their Father, praising Him through melodious prayers for a miracle that hadn't happened in millennia.

Heaven felt home again, perfect in every aspect.

Of course, there was discordant notes in the laudation, because of that part of themselves that had shattered into pieces that couldn't be reassembled. The paths the four of them had taken, the core of their dissension and the reason Heaven was at war with itself, whereas harmony formally reigned. The wails however, were lost in the myriads of cries of wonder and admiration. Astonishment also filled the Host, pressing incessant curious questions to why an event of this caliber happened, as their Father's presence hadn't be sensed yet.

They couldn't afford to linger on it, though. It was time to deal with a more important matter. An ethereal euphony resonated through the Host when the Herald blew in his horn, announcing the beginning of the audience. At the sounds, the whole Host went silent.

In the center of their figure, standing in the large space under the throne itself was Metatron, whose wings shrank against him upon hearing the song, oscillating with nervousness, awe and fear. That was as one should feel when seeing archangels in their full glory, a reminder of the might their Father had bestowed upon them. That included the infinite love they felt for _almost_ all Creation and the resulting will to chastise misbehaviour with fair but strict punishments, making an example of every single one of them.

Their voices was one when they spoke, _Métatron, fils de l'homme faict ange par la main de Nostre Seigneur, eslevé à le ranc de scribe par la parole de Nostre Souvrain. _They bowed in respect, tips of feathers soaked in the water, following their Father's will about His scribe, whose uneasy stance were nothing but entertaining. _Tu nos as convoqué, et com le Seigneur aye ordené, nos sommes venuz. _As they hadn't had any reason to use it for eons, the overly pompous of the holy language's old form felt weird. Still, they had to utilize it for the goal they were aiming for. _Parle maintenant, ta parole est escoutee._

Metatron babbled useless formal salutations in answer, losing himself in it until they eventually nudged him as he was becoming annoying. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, wings flapping nervously, blinked to many times, a faint remnant of his long-passed mortal life.

_Les nephilims doibvent estre destruis._

And that was all. Metatron fell silent then, anxiety pouring out of him as he was wondering what they would do to him now that he had delivered their Father's command. A touch to his mind told them he was saying the truth, and that infinitely short message was all he had been given.

_Grans mercis, Métatron. Va dans la bénédiction du Seigneur._

When he departed less than an instant later, the Host rejoiced with an unrestrained puerile bliss, like they were cherubs or cupids. Still, they were willing to let them continue singing their delight. After all, they were nothing less than warriors, waiting to execute their Lord's every words. And that was without mentioning a simple fact: it was the first time since forever the majority of the Host was on the same wavelength.

* * *

So far the weather was still good, rays of light shining through the multicolored foliage above their heads. Kára was watching the painting-like picture of bright strokes of reds, oranges and golds; pieces detaching themselves from it, then slowly spinning in the air.

It was far different from her memories from her last passage, nearly one year ago. At the time, in the heart of one of the hardest winters she had ever known, there had been nothing but white and tints of blacks and greys. The branches had made like an arch above them, with snow falling on the road whenever its weight became too heavy.

If she closed her eyes, she was sure she would be able to see herself back then. Curly red hair sticking everywhere, freshly and badly cut, as she had done it herself. Thórvaldr had been standing as close as he could without his bay mare running into Logior. At that time, the two of them had been unwilling to be separated if it could be avoided. In fact they acted like a crutch, helping each other even more than usual. With that in mind, the jarl's sworn brother, her dear husband had also cut his long blond hair above his ears, in respect to her decision and the path she had chosen to walk on from that period.

She would be eternally grateful to him, she thought as Myr and Adalrikr's loud chatter drew her attention. She hadn't noticed that the veidimadr had finished dispensing his lesson to his apprentice, and moved forward to speak with the other valkyrie, leaving the youngest ones to themselves, wondering about what kind of wonders their travel would offer.

"So, both of you never went farther than Febœr, right?"

"Nope." Adalrikr frowned as he added, "Mother never wanted me to go too far from Thorhöll, pretexting it was too dangerous," he said with the irritation of young warrior eager to prove themselves. He shook his head then. "And when she says far, it means farther than the Kormak farm."

"And you actually never went farther?" Myr giggled when Adalrikr nodded, passing a hand on the light fuzz covering his reddened cheeks. "Geez, Rik, you're such a mama boy!"

"Oh, shut up, Myr! Mother can be freakishly scary. Valkyrie, you remember? She'd put a fucking tracing galdr on me, just to be sure."

"You're her boy," Kára replied, brushing a leave away from her eyes. "Mothers can quite quite protective."

"No one is that protective! Mother only let me go with you because I turned sixteen, whereas anybody else would have begin travelling with their master far earlier. It's been a while since I'm not a little boy to be protected." Adalrikr's frown deepened and Kára stopped herself from laughing at his typical boyish offense.

"Your age doesn't matter, you're still your mother's boy."

"At least," Myr cut his friend when he was about to reply. "You still have your mother. You can't say the same for everyone."

"You still have your father."

Kára rolled her eyes. "Stop right there, both of you! You know better than play the have-you-got-any-living-parents? game."

After all, it was common knowledge that in the whole hold and more particularly in its capital, almost no one over fifteen winters old hadn't lose one or both parents to the war or other smaller misfortunes, but lethal nonetheless. Myr's mother had died in childbirth, the poor woman had lost too much blood to be saved by the midwives or even the völva. Skuld's husband had met his end when a drunk fight that had degenerated into a full brawl. At least, he had died sword in hands.

"Sorry," Myr eventually said, his head low.

"Yeah, we shouldn't have said that," Adalrikr completed with an apologetic smile.

After that, they fell silent. Kára took some time to listen to the chirping sound of birds and the clop of hooves on the cracking leaves the road was covered in. In front of them, Róta and Arnulfr had also stopped speaking, the second his head turned to the right, ultramarine eyes squinted as he seemed to examine something in the distance. If they had heard them talking—that was a very high possibility—they had chosen to ignore it. She sighed.

"So, you two must be excited," she eventually said to lighten the mood.

"Pretty much yeah. Vatnreid is the second largest town of hold, at the confluence of the Geirgautr River and the Helgeindridr River so, the scenery must be really something to see. _And_," he told it like it was the most important thing. "I heard there's friendly and peaceful alfar living in the town."

"Really?" Myr turned to Kára. "Is that true?"

"I've always seen a couple of them each time I stop there. Never talk to one though."

Truth to be told, she never had the reason to do so. And as a valkyrie, protectress of the Nords, she was used to have to deal with hostile and nuisible supernatural beings, fighting alongside veidimadar like Arnulfr. That was why, even though, the Vatnreid's alfar were pacific, she was wary of them and did her best to avoid any contact with them if it wasn't necessary. It never had be in the past so she fairly doubted it would be now.

"I'd love speaking with one of them. I hope we'll be able to."

"Yeah, that would be pretty awesome."

Kára rolled her eyes to Adalrikr's remark. Trust these young clansmen to be excited about something they should be cautious of. Especially Adalrikr, who were to be a veidimadr when he would finish his apprenticeship.

"Really Adalrikr?" Arnulfr suddenly intervened. "Must I remind you how dangerous alfar are? Although these ones are able to live in harmony with Nords, they could still kill you in no time. Even worse, they could enchant you."

The apprentice seemed about to retort something, but didn't. It always was a rather bad idea to try to talk back to his mentor. Instead he shrugged and turned his eyes to the scenery, gently petting his horse's black mane with a hand. Kára let a soft chuckle out, amused by his quiet temporary resignation: she was certain that the moment Arnulfr wouldn't be listening, the boy would be talking about friendly alfar again. That was kind of cute. Childish for the man he was supposed to be with his sixteen winters, but it was so refreshing to see he had kept some innocence she couldn't help her gladness. She also wished Aldi would have grown up to be a little like that, since it was a luxury her generation hadn't had.

"Anyway boys," Róta said from the head. Kára could almost hear the smile in her words. "Alfar will have to wait. We will make a short stop to Heidarthorp before Vatnreid. Don't worry, it's on our road. I want to speak with the villagers to see if they have some informations about the draugar." That last part were directed to the other adults, who just nodded. "And there's that _succulent _ale they produce, which I absolutely want to buy."

* * *

_Lucifer, watch your words_. Michael was literally radiating annoyance.

Of course Lucifer wasn't helping with his state of mind at all: the smug bastard was far more amused by the situation than he should have been. Not that he should have been amused in the first place. However, that was just so him to take glee in that kind of thing and it would have been foolish to expect anything else from the Morning Star.

_But, brother, can't you see how funny this situation is? I mean, Dad wanted us to bow to humans and love them. And—I'm impressed—some of us actually _did_ it. Isn't that wonderful? Isn't that sort of thing just a logical consequence of what he asked of us?_ Lucifer replied even though it was unnecessary since the others knew everything he thought.

The four of them were still in the same position, less than eager to leave the embrace of their brothers, or disentangle from them, as if doing that would instantly break the peace they had achieved for now. With that being said, they had put the psychic veil back in place, warding most of their thoughts from the other Choirs.

_What are you insinuating, Lucifer?_

_Don't play stupid, Michael. You already know, don't you? What I'm asking is why Dad want us to destroy the fruit of his first-born children and favorite children's love? Love or whatever could push an angel into a _human_'s bed._

_We must not question His words._

Oh dear, they were at it again. The eternal argument was about to come, one more time. An irritable time bomb Michael in a corner, and a Lucifer doing his best to make him explode on the opposite side. This time though, Gabriel couldn't let that happen. Not when their Dad had spoken and given His command. Clear and limpid. He jerked his wings up and down, knowing the friction with their feathers would be uncomfortable enough to attract their attention. It didn't fail: Raphael and the two idiots were suddenly concentrating on him, questioning.

_Both of you, stop. Focus on the matter at hand and our actual mission. Nephilim, remember? Now do one of you know more about them than "the fruit of his first born children and favorite children's love"?_

_How could we know? _Lucifer nudged him playfully while answering, _Aren't you the one who likes to watch them, Gabriel?_

_Actually, I have seen one,_ Raphael said calmly before Gabriel told the bastard to go to hell. _Let me show you._

Through their link, he shared a fragment of his memories. It was a female baby in the hands of her mother. She was born only a few hours ago and, like all human babies at birth, she had an ugly crumpled face. Her big eyes had lavender-colored irises, with swarms of infinitesimal spots of light. Like there was grey stars in them. It would have been invisible to anyone but a creature of the stature of an archangel. For Raphael, it had been obvious that he was seeing shards of grace in this human.

And, in that way that characterized cherubs, Katan—not the name the mother had given her, but what Raphael used when referring to her—already had a full awareness of her surroundings. When, the archangel slipped into the room, without a vessel, she was silently complaining in her own mind that her mother wouldn't understand her words. To that, Raphael answered with amusement that was because the sounds she made were no more than mere cries to a human ear. He hadn't thought she would hear him. She had.

She had turned these weird eyes of her to look straight at him, letting out an approving gurgle coupled with a dribble of saliva who dropped on her chin. She then put her arm in the air, reaching out for him with chubby fingers. Although his wings quivered with annoyance, when the little thing _ordered_ him to touch her with his "pretty fluffy lights"—Gabriel and Lucifer didn't wait to laugh, earning a hard pull on their feathers and Michael disapprobation—he still let the tip of his middle wings skim over her cheeks, making her loudly chirp with glee.

_This is so very yucky Raphael, _Lucifer commented as in the memory, Katan _took_ a handful of his feathers to put it in her mouth as if it was a breast to feed on, putting drool all over them. _No, scratch that. _He quivered in disgust._ This is foul, at the very least. For Dad's sake, that thing can _actually_ touch us. She touched an archangel. Why is she even allowed to live?_

_Last time I heard, she isn't, _Gabriel remarked, complacency making his wings vibrate. Lucifer ignored him.

_If the Nephilim can see, hear and touch us, who knows what else they could do. Even if Father had not commanded it, they should die nonetheless. They are too dangerous._

Gabriel liked to compare Raphael's usual state of mind as the zephyr, soft and gentle, blowing in the sky with an unalterable serenity. When picturing it at the moment, the zephyr had grown more agitated at Michael's words; here and there, clouds forming and strong blast of air blowing them.

_Brothers, _Raphael eventually said after a while, his thoughts full of a determination and conviction similar to Lucifer's when the latter was arguing for what he believed was right. _Katan shall not be harmed_, he asserted. Michael shifted, ready to answer back. Raphael didn't let him, explaining himself further, _No, Michael, listen to me before repeating the Words of God. I have been watching Katan her whole life, to learn more about her kind amongst other reasons. She is innocent and starting from now, under my protection. I vouch to take care _myself_ of any angel who would try to harm her, including you, brothers. She is not to be touched._

_Don't worry, Raph. I'm not the one who'll lift a finger on her._ Gabriel couldn't help the immense proudness for his ever cool and pragmatic having found a cause to defend. He didn't remember seeing Raphael invest himself in anything that wasn't work. _Just don't make cherubs with her, _he added with amusement, much to the other's dismay.

_I'm not keen on more fighting with my brothers. One is enough for me._

After Lucifer spoke, they turned to Michael, whose multitude of thoughts was swirling between them. Love for all of them, as strong as the will to do their Dad's command like the good boy he was. Irritation to see Lucifer rejoice in the fact Raphael was opposing him, drawing a parallel between the two, and Lucifer's hope that, if he granted Raphael's wish, there was a chance he would grant Lucifer's. There was also the thrill to see his brother act like the powerful and fearsome warrior he was, not hesitating to stand up for the things he considered right.

_What is she for you? _Michael decided to ask before taking his decision.

_I can't say I'm not curious about what a Nephilim can do. While she seems like a normal human to her pairs, I've been speaking to her in the dream realm. She's aware of her peculiar nature, without really knowing exactly what she is. I rather like our discussions, and as I said sooner, she is innocent. _

_Interesting, isn't it, Mike? Keeping one of them would be wise, as she can inform us of what they can do. And, there's this little thing. Think, brothers, with their mixed blood, her bloodline would be strong enough to make ideal vessels for us. _

_Alright,_ Michael finally said after a long silence. He pursued with the grave tone he used when he was announcing important decisions, _This one will be allowed to live as long as she stays innocent. No harm will be done to her, as she will bear the protection of an archangel as if she were a prophet. Raphael, from now and until she dies, the Nephilim Katan is your charge. As such, you will take responsibility for any of her actions. In the case of her becoming a danger to humans or angels…_

_My sword will find her heart_,Raphael cut him.

His conviction strong and steady, as he was persuaded that moment would never came and that Katan would never reveal herself to be nefarious to anyone. Gabriel hoped for him that would be the case. While he didn't care at all for the little mixed-blood, he apprehended what would Raphael's reaction be if he had to kill her. Speaking about it and actually doing it wasn't the same thing. And there was enough conflict home; a three-sided archangelic war wasn't needed.

_Are you sure it's what you want?_

_I wouldn't want it otherwise, Michael. She was my duty from the first time I saw her. _

_So be it._

_Now Michael, why aren't you as pliable with me? _Lucifer's voice was nothing but smug. _I'm sure we can come to something we both are satisfied with._

_Because compromise isn't part of your vocabulary, Lucifer_, Michael answered back with irritation.

Gabriel poked hard the two of them with the tip of his feathers at the base of their wings, where it would be particularly unpleasant. _Stop fighting you too. You'll have eternity to do so later but for once, please stop. _And that felt good to be able to say that without them being dismissive.

_Thanks brothers_, Raphael said after a while as he tightened their embrace, engulfing their grace with his to share how much affection and gratitude he felt for them in that moment.

The voices of the Host echoed in their mind, rejoicing and celebrating the love they could perceive through their bond. Even if the psychic veil stopped the angels to have any knowledge of the whereabouts, sensing their leaders' euphoria was enough to make them blissful; that was what they were meant to be, had been eons ago.

Gabriel knew it wouldn't last though: as soon as the Nephilim were out of the picture, Michael and Lucifer would probably be at each others' wings. But for once, home felt _almost_ perfect and he couldn't help the hope it would stay that way.

* * *

**AN: **So, the chapter was long compared to the last, and I hope you enjoyed it.

The language the archangels are speaking with Metatron isn't gibberish nor invented: it's Middle French, and Métatron is just the French's spelling of Metatron.


End file.
